Half the Story
by tartan robes
Summary: An ongoing series of drabbles. Every character. Every ship. Everything.
1. Chapter 1

_Just a place for me to store various, tiny drabbles. If you have any requests, feel free to send them my way.  
><em>

* * *

><p><strong>An Ocean Away: RobertCora**

For a year, she lay by his side. She lay by his side, ran her hands along his chest, drew him close. All the empty spaces, the pockets of air, the gapes between them – she pressed herself closer, tried to fill them, suffocate them.

Even when his heartbeat was in her ear, he was an ocean away.

For a year he stared into the ceiling and never once did he look at her.

But on the 365th day (although he still swears it was sooner), he turned over, drew her close, bridged the distance. He kissed her – _I love you, _he said wordlessly, _I love you, I love you, I love you. _

And he felt close and he felt warm and he felt _there. _

But now she turns over on her side (his heartbeat still in her ear) and stares into the ceiling. He kisses her, but they are empty; they don't mean a thing.

And she wonders, she wonders where he went.

(She kisses him slowly – _where did you go? where did you go? where do I find you?_)

* * *

><p><strong>Grey: O'BrienLang**

Thomas doesn't always have time for her, so she brings Mr. Lang out around the back – just once. (It feels wrong, as though she's breaking a promise. But when has that ever stopped her before?)

"Does the shaking ever stop?" She breathes, putting a cigarette in his mouth.

"I don't –"

"It will 'elp," she says. "Always 'elps me."

God knows she'd be dead without a good smoke. She stops thinking when she lights hers. Everything goes away – the guilt, the pain, the fear. She breathes it in and then exhales it all out – gone, gone, gone.

She lights his for him.

"In 'n out. Won't kill you."

He flinches.

"Better?"

He says nothing.

And then she kisses him. No passion, no love, just plainly, simply – like a common fact. She kisses him in between gasps of smoke. She thinks he tastes grey. Not quite black and not quite white, but somewhere in between. Somewhere lost and blurry, somewhere bleak.

He thinks she tastes like a battlefield. Cold and grey and charred black, black, black like the dresses she wears.

"Better," he says, but his hands still shake.

* * *

><p><strong>Empty Glasses: CarsonHughes** _  
><em>  
>She finishes the last of her wine.<p>

"Do you ever wish you'd taken a wife, Mr. Carson? Had a wedding, maybe."

Whenever she asks these questions, she's greeted with silence. Maybe he knows she's really asking herself, not him. Maybe he doesn't have any answers. Maybe he doesn't want to give them. Perhaps it would be too unprofessional, much too improper. So she doesn't wait for a response; she knows there won't be one.

"Then again" she sets the glass down, "what difference would a wedding make?"

Now he speaks, objects. "But it's tradition," he says and she can't tell if he's honestly appalled at the idea or not. "It proper," he continues, insists, "it's the way things are done."

She shakes her head slightly, "It's only one day, Mr. Carson."

"One day doesn't really matter," she shrugs faintly, "it's the days that come after it that do."

When she leaves, he cleans up her glass, pushes in her chair, and wonders, wonders, _what difference would a wedding have made?_

* * *

><p><em>Opening this project with only three, but I'll try to make sure there are more in the next installments. And not everything will be so romance-centred, hopefully. <em>


	2. Chapter 2

_As a side note, "Mother" and "Charles" contain some season two spoilers._

* * *

><p><strong>Black and White: Carson and William<strong>

Sometimes there is music in the servant's hall – and he ignores it. But only at night, only when he can tell himself it's just a dream, a nightmare.

In the middle of the day, however, he turns the corner and hears a song. He moves to the doorway, frown set, eyes narrowed. "William –" he begins, watching the boy squint at the keys, fingers alternating from black to white.

The boy doesn't hear, plays another tune.

The butler pauses, feels the rickety floorboards beneath his feet, a warmth in his throat. An audience unfolds before his eyes, shadowed faces and illuminated grins. Black and white. Piano keys. He sits down.

William's fingers pause mid-flight, he turns.

"Yes, Mr. Carson?" The footman swallows.

"Play it again."

* * *

><p><strong>How Long is Too Long?: Carson and Hughes <strong>

When she kisses him for the first time, she's crying.

"It cost me a lifetime to find you," she says.

"What a waste," is all he can think to say.

And then she kisses him again.

"_Yes_."

* * *

><p><strong>Family Portrait: Edith<strong>

She copies out a map of the stars.

In the centre, bright and shining, Mary, the sun. Sybil is Mercury, spinning dizzily. Mama is Venus, pretty but distant. Papa is Jupiter, the king.

And her?

She scatters dots between Mars – her aunt, Rosamund – and her father. She's there.

Asteroid Edith.

* * *

><p><strong>Promises: Violet<strong>

He bet their money in all the wrong things, but at night she still held him. (Grudgingly, daintily, distant – but this was always her nature. Always wanting to be held, but never wanting to hold. Always wanting to be loved, but never willing to love. Never completely.) She kissed him, promised him, "Yes, darling, I'll still love you in the morning."

He designed a marriage between their heir, between her son and a _foreigner_, and still she told him, "Yes, darling, I'll love you in the morning."

He began to hold his fork wrong, began to become weak and frail until she no longer recognized his spirit. "Yes, darling, I'll love you in the morning."

And now Simmons undoes her hair, blows out the last candle. She holds the air to her left, clutches the darkness.

"Yes, darling," she promises, "I'll still love you in the morning."

(She is not a creature of romance; she is a creature of duty. A creature of family, routine.)

* * *

><p><strong>Your Secret's Safe With Me: Thomas and O'Brien <strong>

It is O'Brien who sees him kiss the first footman. It's O'Brien who sees the older boy slap him, beat his face raw. And O'Brien sees him try not to cry.

It's O'Brien who puts the cigarette between his lips, lights it up.

"You're not a victim," she tells him, "don't let them make you out into one."

"Then what are we?"

"_We're _nothing," she laughs.

"Not yet, anyway."

* * *

><p><strong>Mother: Isobel and Matthew<br>**  
>He is afraid. No matter who stands over his bed, he is afraid. Mary's smile doesn't heal him; Lavinia's voice doesn't bring back the feeling. Half of him is missing; he can't feel it, can't move – His eyes are burning and he throws up constantly. Each time, he hopes the feeling will come out, materialize, because at least then he'll know where it's gone.<p>

Mary's hands don't comfort him. Lavinia cannot do a single thing.

But then she walks through the door. In his mind's eye he sees a family photograph and realizes, in some ways, half of her, too, is missing.

"Mother," he breathes.

(And he remembers a late night. He remembers Father dragging in the neighbour and the man's bleeding knee. He remembers their maid objecting to the blood in the hall and Mother telling her off. He remembers saying, "Shouldn't we take him to the hospital?" and his father saying, "There's no time for that." And he remembers his Mother and Father, kneeling over the neighbour, hands at work.)

"My darling boy," she tries to smile.

He knows, now, he's going to be all right.

* * *

><p><strong>Needle and Thread: O'Brien and Cora<strong>

They don't understand what it is to be a lady's maid. It's more than hooks and buttons. It's more than the sewing she does every night. It's so much more. And, at the same time, that's all there is to it.

She braids her lady's hair carefully, but there is more to being a lady's maid than braids and pins.

There is the sound of Cora sobbing – and trying very hard to not to.

There is the sound of Cora whispering, "I feel so empty, O'Brien. So very empty."

There is the sound – in the back of her mind – of soap falling to the ground.

Being a lady's maid is stitching. She is the needle, the cut, the open wound. She is the eye, the only one who sees, the only one who knows. And she is also the thread, the knots that closes the pain, makes her ladyship whole again.

She allows herself to hold her lady's hand. She says nothing as her lady cries.

They don't understand what it is to be a lady's maid.

* * *

><p><strong>Charles: Mrs. Hughes <strong>

To say half of England is named Charles would not be an exaggeration.

Charles is the name of the butler of Downton. Of a man who lives to work, instead of working to live.

Charles is the name of a Major, a man without a shred of dignity.

Charles is the name of Ethel's son, a child with a future in limbo.

Charles is the name of a boy she pities, a ghost she loathes, and the man she lo –

She catches herself, stops the thought while she can still tame it.

To say that, of all the names in the world, the name Charles means the most to her – no, that would not be an exaggeration. Not at all.

* * *

><p><strong>A Matter of Time: Thomas<strong>

His father made clocks and clocks taught him about people.

He knows how to wind them up - backwards, forwards - and how to make them tick. He turns the gears, hears them grind, but backs off when he sees sparks. And he sets the hands spinning.

_Tick, tick, tick._

Backwards to the day he told his father about the boy behind the shed.

_Tick, tick, tick._

Fowards to the feeling of pain around his wrists, being to told be silent, to never speak of it again.

_Tick, tick, tick._

The hour hand winds round to the six.

He tugs on his waistcoat - show time.


	3. Chapter 3

**Butterflies and Moths: Daisy**

She couldn't have loved William, because it didn't feel the same.

With Thomas, it had been butterflies. It had been a spell – evil, yes, but magic all the same. It had been dizzy twirls and slipping down slides. It had been excitement, her heart beating against her chest, against the birdcage of her ribs.

William wasn't like that; William was comfort.

He never excited her, never caused her heart to stop. But she knew William; she'd known William. She knew when he was coming by the way he walked, knew how he carried trays up the stairs, how he held them. She knew how his posture only relaxed when he was in the kitchen, how it went stiff as a board as soon as he left the room. And how he never listened when the business didn't concern him – not like Thomas, nosing about everyone's business – but he was the best listener when you talked _to_ him.

Thomas could dance, but William had always provided the music. Thomas had made her laugh, but William had made her smile.

She couldn't have loved him. Wasn't love the electricity and rush of feelings the books (not that she had read any) made it out to be? Wasn't love an adventure? It couldn't be what William had been: steady, easy, stable.

But now, all she wanted was that feeling. Moth feelers and lazy smiles. (Thomas had been a fire, but William had been the warmth.)

So maybe she had loved him after all.

* * *

><p><strong>Alone: Rosamund<strong>

The butler sets two places at the table and she has him pour two glasses of wine.

And every evening, she takes hers in her hand, crosses the threshold, clinks it against his.

"This was always your favourite, wasn't it?" She says to the empty space, takes a slow sip. "It's all we have now."

The maids change the sheets on both their beds and, sometimes, she leaves the light in his room on.

Sometimes, she'll even knock on his door. "I miss you terribly, darling," she whispers, never opening it. If she opens it, she knows he won't come to her in her dreams.

It's horrible game of pretend. Nothing anyone would ever expect from Rosamund Painswick. (If Mama knew, she'd think her insane.)

But, sometimes, love is blind.

Even to the absence.

* * *

><p><strong>Tragic Flaws: Carson and Hughes<strong>

She looks down at the ground, down at their shoes, at the way they stand – almost identical, at the way their shadows cross.

"We could share a room, a house, if we retired," she finally says.

She's greeted with silence; she expected as much.

"See, Charles?" She takes her in hand in his, gently. "There's the snag."

Her fingers skim over his, slipping free, as she watches his head tilt, slightly.

"We love our work more than each other."

* * *

><p><strong>Heart and Sole: Sybil and Branson<br>**  
>On their way to Ireland, fields and skylines skimming by, she takes off her shoes – throws them out the side.<p>

"You won't miss them?" He says.

"Why?" She grins, winds a hand up his arm, along his shoulders, "I have everything I need."

"And they were always so uncomfortable, perfectly suffocating," she adds, a whisper in his ear.

He no longer remembers what the drive to Downton was like, but the drive from it is paved with laughter and lopsided grins.

And a pair of heels, crushed by a quartet of tires.**  
><strong>

* * *

><p><strong>Epilogue: Mary<strong>

She can see Perseus in the sky, swirling down for her.

She can see the sea monster ahead, sprinting forwards.

She looks up and her hero, son of a god, no longer seems that godly.

She looks forward and the monster, the stranger, no longer seems so horrifying.

And when she looks down, she sees herself, chained to a rock – pathetic.

Andromeda rips off her chains. She is not a sacrifice; she is not a damsel.

In the end, Andromeda rescued herself.**  
><strong>

* * *

><p><strong>But the Legends Still Stand: MaryMatthew**

"And did the sea monster get her in the end?"

"Does this look like a sea monster's ring?" She holds out her hand, smiles vaguely.

"I don't know," he marvels – still – at the way her hand slips into his, naturally, perfectly, "sea monsters can be a rather innovative lot."

"Speaking from experience then?"

"Perhaps."

He pulls the covers over them, higher – a tidal wave.

"Maybe," she says, rolling over to face him, "Andromeda realized that things aren't always what they seem."

Her fingers curl around his.

"Maybe being a son of a god doesn't make you godly. Maybe monsters aren't monsters, they're just different."

Her head tilts slightly.

"Maybe Andromeda grew up, became smarter."

"But smart people would sleep in separate bedrooms."

She laughs, "Perhaps we can forgive Andromeda for that lapse in judgement."

"Yes, we certainly can."

* * *

><p><strong>The Final Frontier: Moseley and Mrs. Bird<strong>

"How would you feel, Mrs. Bird, if your child was sent to the moon?"

"I haven't got a child."

"I know – but if."

"If my child was sent the moon, I'd want to know how the bloody hell it got there."

"Yeah," he breathes out, "I don't understand it much either." 

* * *

><p><em>Everything is really, really out of my comfort zone - so I apologize for any character inconsistencies! But I did want to update this project - so hopefully none of these will offend anyone. <em>


	4. Chapter 4

_Head's up: "Goodbye, Revisi__ted" is AU and references a potential brought up in episode 6 - I believe - of season 2. _

* * *

><p><strong>Brother, Bother: O'Brien and Lang<strong>

"You – you said you had a brother?"

She shoots him a glare. The hall is empty, but it doesn't matter. She knows better than anyone how fast words, phrases, secrets travel through gratings and corridors.

And then she feels bad – only slightly – for being so harsh.

He doesn't understand boundaries; it's not his fault. Doesn't understand that things said in the privacy of a bedroom shouldn't be repeated outside the door. Doesn't understand that the things she does at night are different than the things she does in the morning. Hell, the man doesn't, can't understand fact from fiction anymore.

He doesn't want pity, she knows, but she's never been good with empathy so pity's all he'll get.

"Yeah," she finally says.

"Only brother?"

"Only one that counted."

"It's nice to count," he mumbles, struggling to find the words.

She tries to understand.

With him, she can only try.

* * *

><p><strong>Goodbye, Revisited: Carson and Hughes<br>**

He walks her to the door.

"You should come by more often," he manages, cursing himself for saying the words. She will think him awfully dependent on her – something that most certainly isn't. (But then, he thinks of the two wine glasses on his new desk, one always empty. Maybe he needs her for something more than linens and charts and paperwork.)

The sound she makes is a strangled one, caught between laughter and tears. He cannot place it.

"Don't tell me you miss me," she says, but doesn't dare to meet his eyes. Not this time.

"I do, Mrs. Hughes," a pause, "very much."

But she's already started down the path.

The wind swallows his reply instead.

* * *

><p><strong>Slipping: Mrs. Patmore<strong>

Of course she knew it was happening.

She could scream at Daisy all she liked, but she knew it wasn't the girl's fault. Not completely, anyway.

The pots became grey blurs, spices blended into one and the same, the kitchen maids became wisps – loud whispers and splashes of white lining the room.

When her sister died, her eyes were the first things to go. They snapped shut, gave into the blackness.

And the more time passed, the more things all become dark, dark, dark. Black, black, black.

She was afraid.

Terrified.

But she still knew things. Could recite recipes by heart. As long as they didn't know, she could be useful. As long as she didn't admit anything was wrong, then she wasn't really slipping.

If she didn't acknowledge the fear, she wasn't afraid.

* * *

><p><strong>Letters: Mrs. Hughes<br>**  
>She keeps them locked and tucked away, buries them under her paperwork. (Just like their love, if that was what it was, buried under work.)<p>

She and Joe could have been something good. She had always considered herself lucky when they had been together. He wasn't the most handsome boy, but she had never considered herself the prettiest of girls. He wasn't the cleverest either, but he had made up for that with dedication and kindness. He had made her laugh. He had been patient. He had cared. He had loved her.

They could have been something good.

She doesn't reread the letters ever, keeps them out of respect and not affection. She loved Joe, she did. The farmer's daughter whose arms fell perfectly into his – Elsie Hughes loved him.

Not enough, but it must count – somehow.

And so when she finds a letter on the ground, a silly boy's scribblings to a certain Miss Gwen Dawson, she doesn't confront the girl. She folds it up neatly, lets it slide. (Just this once, she tells herself.)

And that night she opens the box – but, still, doesn't read a word – and slides the letter in with all of Joe's.

Some things are better buried.

* * *

><p><strong>Automatic Response: O'Brien and Cora<strong>

"Yes, M'Lady."

"Yes, M'Lady."

"Yes, M'Lady."

It's all she ever seems to say.

"O'Brien," she whispers one night, "do you love me?"

"Yes, M'la –"

* * *

><p><em>I always fall back to the same group. I should probably push myself a bit more. Oh well. <em>


	5. Chapter 5

_So this time around, I decided to take a quotation from one of the characters and use that as my prompt. Sort of extending it or giving it some background, if you will. I don't really know. But thanks so much for all your reviews for the previous chapters._

* * *

><p><strong>Rosamund: "You know me, Mama."<strong>

Rosamund is infuriating.

She gives her match after match. Introduces her to all the proper boys, the right gentleman. The ones with pedigrees spawning centuries, the ones that are most suitable for the daughter of Lady Grantham. She doesn't give any of them more than a smile.

Instead, Rosamund has an eye for danger. It's a romantic indulgence, she knows this to be truth despite her daughter's protests. ("_A romantic, Mama, really? Isn't that awfully delusional for someone of my class?_") A silly inclination for something she takes to be "an adventure".

What it is, in fact, is stupidity.

The way she eyes the Painswick boy, for example, is nothing more than idiocy. He will never provide for her, not properly. He will never even hold a knife the way he ought to. And yet her daughter still gives him her arm, her last dance.

She will right this in the morning, before her daughter gives him anything else.

The Lady of Downton Abbey watches her maid take the pins from her hair. She watches the jewels leave her neck, the feathers be removed from her hair. She watches all the grandeur, all the illusions, fade.

She looks in the mirror and sees Rosamund's face.

It's most infuriating.

**Mrs. Hughes: "If you're feeling homesick, there's no shame in it.**** It means you come from a happy home. There's plenty of people here would envy that."**

When Elsie Hughes is ten, she runs too fast, loses her footing, and slides down the hill. Her knee bleeds and she decides she'll never run again, never be that reckless. It becomes a rule. It becomes one of many.

Elsie Hughes has all sorts of rules. It's a rule that she'll always take the blame, even if it's her sister's fault. It's a rule to be quiet after six, when Dad comes home smelling of beer and swearing too loudly. (If she's quiet enough, he won't know she's there. If she's quiet enough, he won't lay a hand on her.) It's rule not to say anything when Mam cries. It's a rule not to ever, ever complain about your chores.

The rules keep her safe. As long as she follows them, nothing bad will happen to her.

On her first train ride, she makes it a rule that she'll never look back. Won't even turn her head to glance at the window. She doesn't want to see the farm, the country she's leaving behind. She'll go as far as she has to to get away from all of that, from all of them.

But the rules don't leave.

She goes to Downton and the rules become law. She follows them perfectly, to the last letter. Because of this, there are no gentleman callers, no late night escapades. Because of this, she gets promoted.

She sits across from Mr. Carson one night, the pantry lights dim and the wine plentiful. And that one night becomes a year and the year becomes a decade. A decade of looks and laughter and teasing – all wrapped and bound in rules.

Some nights, when she's had one glass too many, she thinks of breaking them. She thinks of telling him, of reaching across the chasm and grabbing his hand, pulling him close.

But then she thinks of the look he'd give her, the way he'd shake his head, pull away.

The rules keep her heart safe.

The rules keep her safe.

**O'Brien: "It's worse than a shame. It's a complication."**

Da dies when she's eight. Ma cries a bit, but not as much as the neighbours say she should, and puts her in a black dress (she'll never grow out of it) and that's that. At night, Ma thanks the good lord he's blessed her with capable sons, says they'd be out of house and home without those boys.

Sarah asks her brother what that means.

Her brother, her favourite brother, hoists her up into his lap, lights up a cigarette. "Means, Sarah, you can't trust no one."

He breathes out a cloud of smoke; she tries to catch it in her palms. "Old man's death was sad, I guess, but what's sadder in the shoddy state he's left us in."

Her legs swing above the ground, trying to find a place take root.

"Left us with nothing," her brother adds, bitter. "You can't trust no one."

"Except you," the girl says, looking her brother in the eye.

A grey curtain snakes up, blurs his features.

"Nah, not even me, Sarah, not even me."

**Edith: "I didn't think Patrick knew."  
><strong>  
>In many ways, she has always, always wanted to be Mary.<p>

She wants Mama to smile at her the way she smiles at Mary, wants the boys to turn their heads like they do for Mary. She wants Patrick to look at her the way he looks at Mary.

Not that Mary would know. Mary doesn't give him so much as a glance.

She doesn't see the way he watches her, the way he smiles when she enters the room, instantly jumps to his feet. She doesn't see the way he looks at her through the window. The way he cranes his neck ever so slightly, hoping to catch her eye as she passes. She doesn't hear his first question – always about her – whenever he comes.

And she doesn't see his habit of fiddling with his fingers. The way he rocks on his heels when he speaks with his father. The exact way he holds a glass in his hands. The way his lips purse when he's in thought.

Mary doesn't see any of it.

Mary doesn't see what she loves about him.

She writes him letter after letter. It's not her place – as the second daughter, it never is – _they're _not arranged to be married. But she does it anyway. Sometimes she tells him about her day, the guests they've had, or the state of the yard. She tells him about their squabbles, Granny's latest tirade. She writes to him about everything.

And signs every letter _Mary Crawley_.

(She keeps them all in a locked drawer and the day he goes under, she drowns the letters too. Shoves them underwater until the ink slides right off the paper. The love doesn't leave her half as quickly.)


	6. Chapter 6

**Stitching Shadows: O'Brien and Lang**

He watches him while he sews.

His hands tremble when he goes in, but they're straight when he pulls out. She wonders if that's the kind of murderer he was, gun in hand and mud in his boots. (If it means anything, she's the opposite sort.) His hand goes crooked, the pattern swerves. It isn't the first time, just the first he's noticed. Shame. She knows he can do better; she knows, too, it's been ages since she's been with someone who could stitch half as well as him. (There was a reason, after all, Mrs. Hughes was a housekeeper and not a lady's maid.) She stops hovering over him – maybe it's her shadow bringing back the nerves – and, instead, takes the seat next to his. She pries fabric from him in the same way she sets jewels on Her Ladyship's neck. Gentle, hands more invisible than tangible, barely there. She pulls out the thread, slides it back before him. He's spent the time staring at the knots in the wood instead of her. Somehow, this is a comfort.

"Do it again," she mutters.

She'll sit here until he gets it right, until something gets better.

* * *

><p><strong>Midnight Dancers: Carson and Hughes<br>**  
>The family has retired for the night and all that is left in the room is glitter and glimmer. Leftover sparkles from the ornaments on the tree, lost earrings (which he picks up with the utmost care, wary of their owners) sliding across the floor, glasses glazed in a residue of wine. Two tables away, reassembling the wreckage from the festivities, she bends over and a twist of her hair falls undone. She doesn't bother to adjust it; it's nothing he hasn't seen before.<p>

"If you wanted to dance with me, _Charles_, you should have asked when the musicians were still here."

"I had social obligations to fufill, _Elsie_."

"Barely social. Was the old bat that good a dancer?"

"You know the family expects me to –"

"Oh yes, _the family_. It was the servant's ball for heaven's sake, Charles. It was _your _night."

"Did Mister Patrick tire you that much?"

She stops abruptly, turning quicker than she did in any man's arms tonight. The glasses in her hands rattle and she glares at him, cold and stern. It's the look she makes when she impersonates the housekeeper. But now, given its intensity and the way it has him reduced to a shadow, he feels as though it's the housekeeper that has been mimicking her.

"No, what tires me – what always tires me – is that I'm always going to be playing second fiddle to your first great love," her free hand tugs at the sleeve of her dress. He had walked up with her and, at the time, they had both thought the dress was beautiful (though neither had said it). Now, as he watches her pull and inspect for only the briefest of moments, he knows she's right: the dress may be beautiful, but it's no longer beautiful on her. The music is gone and family is asleep; it's painfully clear how much the dress doesn't suit her. This sort of finery doesn't suit her. "And what do I compare," she finally says, drawing in a breath, "to the majesty of this house?"

"Elsie –" But she's turned on him, walking through an archway and into the darkness. A part of him is thankful for it; he doesn't know what he'd say. He doesn't know how to deny what she's said, doesn't know how to console her.

She stops after six paces, and her head turns to look at him. A sigh.

"And which room will we be_ dancing _in?" She finally asks, "Yours or mine?"

"Mine would be better."

"Yes, I thought as much."

He doesn't know what to say, but perhaps he will find a way to speak in steps and smiles instead.

Perhaps it will be enough.

* * *

><p><em>It's been awhile since I updated this and I felt I should. Unfortunately, I wasn't terribly inspired, so I hope you don't mind that there are only two. As always, thank you so much for your reviews! (And if you have any prompts or requests, really, shoot them my way.) <em>


End file.
